


it's a warzone

by ravenhairedtrickster



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Complicated Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Nipple Licking, Past Rape/Non-con, Recently back from the portal Ford, Sensitive Ford, Sibling Incest, Technically Ford has never been fucked by Stan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 08:11:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5860981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenhairedtrickster/pseuds/ravenhairedtrickster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey,” Ford puffs, his pulse quickening with an irritated growl from Stan. He mumbles, “Here.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's a warzone

**Author's Note:**

> This is a drabble that got a bit out of hand. I wanted to write a Ford that got reunited with Stan after his long absence without a wedge between them. A lot of Ford's issues are vague but I still tagged appropriately. 
> 
> Hopefully someone enjoys this mess.

They fall backwards, Stan’s hand curled protectively around Ford’s skull taking the brunt force of the floor - still the impact jars Ford’s glasses. He takes a moment to simply stare at his brother. His brother the jock, the conman. _His_. The thought sends warm tendrils down his throat and Stan _must_ be able to feel them as he kisses the rough stubbled flesh. 

Ford allows his legs to fall open when Stan shuffles closer. This is good, he thinks. He feels paralyzed, so warm and smooth, like liquid. Like he’d morph into any shape were Stan to ask. The feeling doesn’t abate, even when Stan’s thick fingers are pressing a little too insistently into the dip of his stomach, fumbling imperfectly with the waist of his pants. 

“Hey,” Ford puffs, his pulse quickening with an irritated growl from Stan. He mumbles, “Here.” 

It takes everything, every ounce of energy in him to move his arms. He pushes Stan’s hands aside, pops the button with relative ease and draws his fly down - Stan gasps and Ford takes a moment to drink in his brothers shock at his nakedness, he’s tempted to pull himself out so Stan can get a real good look, even if he’s not as impressive as his twin. 

“C’mon big guy,” Ford urges, lifting his hips. His face burns and Stan gets his odd look in his eyes. Ford can’t contain his shocked cry as Stan lunges forward, their teeth clash and somewhere between them one of Stan’s nails - uneven from biting - nicks the inflamed skin of his cockhead. 

His pained groan disappears into Stan’s open mouth. 

“I _know_ what I’m doing,” Stan snaps when they part, a string of saliva snapping between them and dripping down Stan’s chin. 

“Like this?” Ford asks warily. He’s never assumed Stan _didn’t_ know how to fuck, god knows his brother was privy to many such experiences. Ford isn’t sure his brother knows how to fuck _him_. Though in the grand scheme of things he’s only got the written word and a few nasty assumptions from highschool days to go off of. 

“Yes,” Stan breathes into Ford’s face and it’s not exactly a snarl, just pure aggression with a tint of hurt. Stan says, “I _know_ you.”

Ford nods. He can’t argue that, even if he could he wouldn’t, not in this moment, maybe not ever. 

Any other words die on their lips. Ford’s not exactly sad of that. He lounges, spreads his legs wider and accommodates the girth of Stan’s body as it bears down on him. They press together, needy, desperate and equally lost in a thousand different times, in a thousand different universes - and yet joined now, in the present, empty memories they’ll never share between them.

Ford stifles a gasp, Stan’s teeth worry his jaw. His cock twitches in its confines, half exposed and an angry red. A drop of white precum pearls at the head, Stan swipes it impassionately away with a thumb, Ford convulses, loses his breath. 

“Just as you left me, Sixer,” Stan says hotly against his brothers earlobe. “Still, so sensitive.”

Ford shakes his head violently, glares at Stan through fogged up lenses. He'd wondered if Stan had forgotten _that_ little tidbit about him, clearly not, however, the drag of his twins thumb caused more pain than pleasure. 

“Gently,” Ford reminds, his legs trembling around Stan as the unsettling feeling of too-responsive nerve endings slowly ebbed away in turn with the throb of his arousal. 

When it had passed he was half soft, foreskin swallowing his paled, sticky cockhead. 

“Sorry,” Stan murmurs, looking delicately between their bodies to trace Ford from root to tip a few times, fingers never dipping beneath the excess skin. Stan admits, “I forgot.” 

Ford gives a halfhearted shrug, it’s been years, he can’t blame Stan for his ignorance, not entirely. 

“It’s okay,” he sighs against Stan’s shoulder. 

It’s take a minute or two of soft, fluttering caresses to get him hard again - Ford thinks this must be perplexing to his brother, but there’s a _reason_ , though he’s not ready to tell Stan the change in his libido; or it’s cause. A shudder involuntarily runs down his spine, if Stan notices the tremor he doesn’t mention it, or doesn’t care to because he’s pushed the red of Ford’s ratty sweater up and is wetting his brothers nipples with his tongue. 

“Stanley,” Ford warns as Stan’s fingers ring around his cock, squeezing the base tight. Stan’s mouth closes on his pebbled flesh. Ford cries out, reaching up and burying his fingers in his brothers hair, holding Stan to him as the suction on his nipple remains, more or less, constant. 

His orgasm creeps up on him quickly, Ford bucks into air and the fingers around his cock slide lower, encasing his balls in an oddly soft palm. 

Stan chuckles, the nose low in his throat and that’s all it takes. It oozes out of him more than it shoots, dribbling onto his stomach and webbing across his pubic hair. Stan’s forefinger runs the length, curiously, bypassing the tip to bury in the mess he’s made on himself. 

“You didn’t,” Ford says, pulling Stan up to face him by a gentle tug on his ears. He glances down between them even though he doesn’t _have_ to because he can feel the evidence pressing against his thigh.

“I didn’t,” Stan agrees with a lick of his lips. He rolls away, off Ford and for a moment he adjusts himself, sliding his hand into his pants to arrange his arousal more appropriately. 

Ford gulps. This way it strains down Stan’s thigh, thick and heavy and merely a suggestion from beneath black dress pants. 

“Why don’t you?” Ford dares, his voice shakes. “I’d let you, you know I would.”

Stan laughs, it’s a rough sound, familiar. 

“You’re not telling me something,” Stan says after a while. “About your time over _there_. I can tell.”

Ford reaches down and pulls his pants closed but leaves his sweater pushed high, his nipples still tingling pleasantly. He regards Stan with trepidation, feels foolish because of course Stan would figure it out. Or at least guess at the issue. 

“I’m sorry,” Ford whispers and suddenly yanks his sweater down. He turns his face away, ashamed and a part of him hopes Stan will just leave, just let him be. 

That doesn’t happen, however. 

Ford feels Stan beside him, behind him, close. And he presses his lips together in a line that threatens to waver with the force of his stifled sobs that are trapped in his throat. Stan’s arms curl around him ever so carefully, as if he he _knows_ Ford is so close to shattering. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” Stan says into Ford’s hair as he pulls him into his chest. “Not now, not ever if you don’t want to.”

Ford clutches at the arms around his chest and doesn’t even care when his glasses fall from his face to the floor with a clatter. Maybe it’s better this way, he was blind then, he can be blind now. 

“You already know it,” Ford says. He twists within Stan’s grasp and hides his face in his twins chest. 

“You were hurt,” is all Stan says after a while. 

Ford feels like a child at the simplicity of the statement, at the truth hidden between the lines - something Stan isn’t willing to say out loud, and Ford thinks perhaps it’s a good thing he doesn’t.

“And I wasn’t there,” Stan says sadly, “to protect you.” 

Ford almost jerks back. Instead he stays put, pushing against Stan even harder, as if he could melt into his brother and forget all this. He says, muffled, “It’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself.” 

It seems feeble but Ford adds, “You can protect me now,” and when Stan’s arms tighten, “don’t ever let me leave you again.”

“I won’t, Sixer,” Stan murmurs, he stares over the top of Ford’s head at the cracked glasses. “Never again.”


End file.
